


The Resurrection of a Beekeeper and his Assistant

by a_different_equation



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, The Case of Death and Honey - Neil Gaiman
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magical Realism, Resurrection, Romance, Sussex, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:54:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27655775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_different_equation/pseuds/a_different_equation
Summary: At the end of Neil Gaiman'sThe Case of Death and Honey, Sherlock Holmes plans to return to England. He wants to visit John Watson for tea and serve some buttered toast with the magical honey, so they both will be young again. But will the two get their fairytale ending in Sussex Downs?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 23
Kudos: 46
Collections: Holmestice Exchange - Winter 2020





	The Resurrection of a Beekeeper and his Assistant

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ColebaltBlue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColebaltBlue/gifts).



> For WinterHolmestice 2020 for ColebaltBlue (following the prompts: "Neil Gaiman", "magical realism", Johnlock, "angst with a happy ending", "hurt/comfort", "fluff", "romance" etc.). 
> 
> Beta read by ancientreader. Thank you very much!
> 
> Thank you, mods, for running the exchange. It has been a wonderful light during such dark times! 
> 
> You can read Neil Gaiman's short story, "The Case of Death and Honey" here: http://www.pages.drexel.edu/~ina22/200/The%20Case%20of%20Death%20and%20Honey.htm

_It is done._

_It works. Already I feel a strange combination of triumph and disappointment, as if of defeat, or distant storm-clouds teasing at my senses._

_It is strange to look at my hands and to see, not my hands as I know them, but the hands I remember from my younger days: knuckles unswollen, dark hairs, not snow-white, on the backs._

_It was a quest that had defeated so many, a problem with no apparent solution. The first Emperor of China died and nearly destroyed his empire in pursuit of it, three thousand years ago, and all it took me was, what, twenty years?_

_I do not know if I did the right thing or not (although any "retirement" without such an occupation would have been, literally, maddening). I took the commission from Mycroft, I investigated the problem. I arrived, inevitably, at the solution._

_Will I tell the world? I will not._

_And yet, I have half a pot of dark brown honey remaining in my bag; a half a pot of honey that is worth more than nations. (I was tempted to write, worth more than all the tea in China, perhaps because of my current situation, but fear that even Watson would deride it as cliché.)_

_And speaking of Watson . . ._

_There is one thing left to do. My only remaining goal, and it is small enough. I shall make my way to Shanghai and from there I shall take a ship to Southampton, a half a world away._

_And once I am there, I shall seek out Watson, if he still lives—and I fancy he does. It is irrational, I know, and yet I am certain that I would know, somehow, had Watson passed beyond the veil._

_I shall buy theatrical makeup, disguise myself as an old man, so as not to startle him, and I shall invite my old friend over for tea._

_There will be honey on buttered toast served for tea that afternoon, I fancy._

(Neil Gaiman: The Case of Death and Honey)

* * *

It’s 1942 when I reach London. It’s the worst of times to come back to England, and also very fitting. When Mycroft set me on the case at the turn of the century, he already envisioned this battlefield. What better time to be Sherlock Holmes once more, as when the world explodes? Surely, my Watson would pen some lines, about how we two will survive, and we will: I carry the honey with me.

The trip was long and exhausting, and there were times when I feared that I wouldn’t make it. It is ludicrous, as I am now my younger self, but the world is on fire, so my body is weak and even my mind is in shambles, full of memories, hopes and fears. I should be rejoicing and full of energy, and God, how I missed my beloved city, but how can I run down alleys to chase down criminals when my bones aren’t creaking but bombs are falling from the sky? Our London is no more.

Instead of visiting Baker Street, I go to Sussex immediately. There is no hope of seeing the house once more, to count the steps up to our shared flat, to wait for Mrs Hudson’s announcement of a client I’ve already deduced by then, as the war took both her and the house before their time. 

The soldiers in the station are battered and bruised, too young to die but too old for the world already; in them, I see Watson of younger days. I refuse to think of my honey because to give them the secret won’t save them, it would only prolong the pain. There is no meaning in war, not one set in Afghanistan nor here, war is war, and that’s everything. What I hope to bring my Watson is peace.

* * *

When I come to Sussex, Watson is wary. 

The cottage is picturesque: white bricks and a thatched roof. The wooden shutters are shaking quietly in the wind. It is weather-faced, just like its inhabitants. I had bought the cottage at the beginning of the 20th century as a retirement place and added Watson to the deed. 

Setting my gaze upon him for the first time in over a decade, I could have deduced the reasons why John Watson finally came to Sussex and left our London for good, but I chose not to: my detecting days are over.

His hair, which had been turning silver already when I had left London and him, shimmers in the fading light. 

Watson has never been a tall man but time has shortened him further. I do not dare imagine what another world war in our lifetime does with an old soldier like John Watson. His shoulders are hunched now, and I fear that not even a hug would straighten him to his full height. 

And oh, how thin he has become. The absence of his little belly tugs at my heart. Of the two of us, Watson had been the one to love to indulge. We had dined out often in Victorian London, and the good Mrs Hudson had enjoyed cooking and baking our favourites. 

Only nostalgia and the cold sea nearby make my eyes sting.

“Good evening.” 

Rarely having used my voice since my resurrection, I am surprised that I sound as I had during our Baker Street days. It is that which shocks Watson into action. 

His “Good evening” is more a question than a greeting, and it hits me almost as much as his broken voice. Where is his commanding air? His doctorly concern about his patients, and me, is absent. 

It is not that I hoped to be scolded for leaving him behind once again, or maybe I did, secretly. To hear his hurt, and to instantly know that he cared.

Watson’s initial reaction is a natural one, even though we both inwardly bristle: Watson suspects me of being Sherlock Holmes' son. 

For a second I am furious with myself for having abandoned my initial plan to put on a disguise. I hadn’t wanted to repeat the return from my first exile. Far too painful is the memory of the good doctor’s fainting. Back then I had mumbled an “I hadn’t suspected you to be so affected” as an apology. 

Now, I need to alter my plan once more: “Watson, John, it’s me.”

It is strange to call him by his first name, but this is a new era, and we are two of their kind, always have been. 

John Watson doesn’t faint, but it is a close call.

* * *

“A strong drink is in order,” Watson says, still shaking his head. 

I follow him into the cottage, adopting his slow pace. He is using a cane again, his old war wounds, as well as arthritis, making him wince with every step. I flinch when he stumbles over a crease in the carpet of the living room. When I reach for him, trying to stabilize him, he brushes me off far too soon. 

His woollen jumper is wonderfully soft.

When we have seated ourselves on the sofa in front of the fireplace, tumblers filled with good whiskey at the ready, Watson turns to me. 

“I knew that you were a dark horse, Holmes.” He chuckles, which turns into a coughing fit. It alarms me, but Watson waves away my concern. “It’s nothing, just old age which plagues us all. Except you, apparently.”

I take a sip of the whiskey. It burns pleasantly in my throat. 

“I have discovered the secret of life.” 

“Surely you jest!” 

“Watson, John...look at me and draw your conclusions.”

“But Holmes!”

“If you have eliminated the impossible…”

“But a… youth serum? I know you to be an excellent scientist, and I see with my own eyes that you look as we first met in 1881, but… Holmes, honestly? Are you certain?”

“Do you know me as a man of great humour?”

“You had your moments…”

“And at this moment: do you hear me laughing?” I take another sip, needing courage. “I don’t want to amuse you, John. I want to resurrect you. Let us both be young again.”

I am torn: should I add, “To give us a second chance”? But before I can utter the ultimate truth, my Watson beats me.

“No, I am sorry, Holmes. But I cannot consent to this.” When our eyes meet and he observes my innermost wishes, his lips curve into a small, melancholic smile. “Please, Sherlock, whatever you have planned, let it go.”

It is an unsaid “I love you”, with a wish to let him rest in peace. 

I want to scream, at him, the world, everything and anything, but I breathe in and out, and reply, “All right, John.”

* * *

We drink tea and share stories. 

In the evening, we dance, and Watson hums into my ear. In Baker Street, we could never have done such a shocking thing with open curtains, but here only the crackling fire is our witness. 

The cottage is miles away from the nearest village, and we have shut out the world tonight. I could not even hear the sea, for I’m surrounded by my Watson, only listening to his heartbeat. It’s faster and a bit arrhythmic, but I convince myself that it is simply our proximity. 

The clock announces the hour. It’s ten o’clock, and we should go to bed soon. I forbid myself all thoughts about sleeping arrangements. 

It is a sudden wetness that brings me back to the present: my Watson is silently crying. Hesitantly, I brush over his back. It is a foreign feeling to offer him comfort, and to know that I have a remedy for it all; alas, all I have to give is my love. 

It has to be enough, love.

“It’s all right, Holmes. I — no, we — had a wonderful time, the very best of them.”

I am Sherlock Holmes; ergo I know that my John is dying.

“The doctor expects you to last two weeks.”

“The good doctor is a fool. I expect to not outlive this weekend, Holmes. What do you think?”

“I’d rather not…”

“Please, old friend, one last time: how much time do you think we have left?”

“Not enough.”

“Even if I have confidence in your reasoning, I would have guessed you would elaborate further.”

“This is our last day.”

“Then, my dear Holmes, let us make the best of it.”

I want to dance with him for the last time, but Watson is too weak. So we sway in the moonlight. I am mostly carrying his weight

It’s I who hums some tunes I overheard on my trip home. This singer - Frank Sinatra - is quite popular. I feel the ghost of a smile on John's face; he was always the romantic.

_If they asked me, I could write a book_

_About the way you walk and whisper and look_

_I could write a preface on how we met_

_So the world would never forget_

_And the simple secret of the plot_

_Is just to tell them that I love you a lot_

_Then the world discovers, as my book ends,_

_How to make two lovers of friends_

“Now I can go over in peace,” Watson says.

I don’t have it in my heart to reply, “This is not the peace I wanted to bring to you,” because what I want was never on the table.

* * *

While the hours are ticking by, I lie awake in Watson’s narrow bed. 

Who cares about what’s proper at the deathbed of one's beloved? I never cared for the views of society and church, and I assumed that Mycroft had envisioned something similar when he had set me on his path. After all, he had been not only the older but also the smarter brother. I could not save him, but Mycroft had sensed that the death of John Watson would break me. His demise, however, had been a motivator; as a man who had abhorred all emotions, my brother had indeed played a perfect game.

Daydreams are not my natural habitat; neither are emotions. I will admit I cultivated the illusion that I was a thinking automaton, and my Watson had participated in this poetic manoeuvre. Yet, the great Sherlock Holmes is dead, and a better man is resurrected. 

It is something I learned during my years as a beekeeper: to focus inwardly and to use my talents at self-observation. Earlier, I had deduced passersby in the streets and England's finest criminals, and sometimes I had played a trick on my companion or had tried to teach him my methods. 

The old oak tree waving in the howling wind outside creates dancing shadows on the wooden floor; I turn my eyes away from them. It is not like me to imagine ghosts of decades past resurfacing, and yet, I walk down memory lane. 

I gained more riches in life than I thought I would. I achieved a great career; I solved many mysteries, including that of the fountain of youth; and I made friends, one in particular. 

I had John Watson for almost a lifetime, and even if I, in my heart, know that one lifetime would not be enough, it is not up to me. It’s his life, and I need to keep my hands off it, so all I do is hold his hand while he sleeps. 

I only dare to reach out for him when his breath begins to rattle. These are his last breaths, so he won't scold me for it. It will bring him comfort to know that he isn't alone, even if I am the only one at his bedside. 

Dawn approaches far too soon and too late.

Watson's state gets worse, and I get furious at my brilliant deductions, once more at the top of my game. It is the darkest hour of the night when souls are most likely to leave their bodies when I realise my crucial mistake: I will be alone when I die. 

My Watson has me; I will have no one. 

A lifetime ago, that had been in my cards; in truth, I hadn’t expected anything else. Frankly, I had not expected to live so long, but I met Watson, and my life took another path. Now Mycroft had set me upon the path he once had saved me from. For two decades, while I had made myself believe to be all about another chase, I had fallen back into old habits.

I have solved the riddle, and who’s going to applaud me?

No one, not even I.

Because lying there, in this cottage on the Sussex Downs, my Watson by my side, I realise my error: instead of spending two decades away, I could have been here. I could have kept bees if I liked, sometimes rushing out to solve some country crime, while Watson could have written up our cases. We would have drunk tea, shared stories, and danced together in the dark. We could have had a dog.

We could have been happy.

This is my last conscious thought.

* * *

When I wake up again, all is different. Yet, everything is also familiar because my Watson is by my side. 

He’s smiling at me, all boyish cheek, and his cheeks are rosy and wrinkle-free. His hair shines golden in the morning light, but his eyes are the same blue, reminding me of the open sea. 

In a heartbeat, I reach over and put my mouth on his. Maybe the saying is true: only lovers are left alive.

Or that there is only one man on this earth who manages to surprise the great Sherlock Holmes: my John. 

Who has somehow sneaked the honey into the bedroom, and decided sometime during the night, that every Sherlock Holmes needs a partner, and who is better suited for this task than him?

For that brilliant deduction as well as the execution of a masterful plan, I kiss him.

And because I - no, we - can, we kiss some more.

* * *

It is well past morning when we leave the bed. 

At the table, eating buttered toast and drinking tea, Watson inquires about my plans. 

“I will continue to tend to the bees. There are beehives in the garden, aren’t there? And I intend to write a monograph on the congregation of the queen bee. Alas, no mention of my discoveries in the Himalaya, I’m afraid.”

“Better be it, old man.”

“Old?” I raise my eyebrow. “Have you looked in a mirror recently, John?”

We snort and end up giggling like schoolboys, even though we are slightly older. I estimated my new age at around 28, but I could be mistaken. For the first time in my life, I don’t care about accuracy. Watson and I will have many years together, and that is all that counts. 

We get a second chance, all thanks to honey.

“Every beekeeper needs an assistant, John. Do you know a man you can recommend?”

  
THE END  
  



End file.
